A poem a day is the poet way!

April 1, take that.

It started in the station wagon at the drive-in,
during the second feature when we were supposed to sleep.
After misadventuring dragons and credits, we piled in back,
and watched our parents watch Audrey Hepburn.

The second we got there, we faked supposed sleep,
peeked at their movies full of kisses and killings
which we watched our parents watch.
Popcorn long gone, mouths and fingers salty,

we dared to look at the kisses, the killings,
from under the blankets. We hummed
with the long-gone popcorn, our desiccated mouths,
hoping to sleep, to force time and a story to elapse,

but our blankets just muffled the humming plot.
Again, again, we tried to listen:
we hoped to make sleep, time, story triangulate,
make ourselves a part of the passion and war.

We tried, but were too small to apprehend
the long cigarettes, the bayonets–too small
to make ourselves a part of passion or any war.
Dim and sleepy, we told ourselves:

one day we’ll smoke cigarettes, affix bayonets:
A soldier’s job is to wear his uniform.Though it was dark and sleepy, we said,I’d marry you for your money in a minute.

The prescribed uniform: pajamas. Blankets.
No dragons to slay, just overwhelming drowse.
The man I was to marry–and his money–eons away,
speakers piping slumber into my parents’ car.